Raindrops on Poppies
by MerlinEmrys22
Summary: Private John Watson kept a journal, all four years of the Great War.
1. Chapter 1

**13th November 1918**

**221B Baker Street, London**

It's quiet here.

That's the first thing I noticed when I arrived here. The sheer silence compared to the constant madness of the trenches is a strange sound, after so many months trapped in never-ending chaos. It seemed we would never be free from the metallic taste of blood engraved on our lips, that we would never be allowed back to the hazy memories of green England.

It seemed a century ago we were roaming across colourful land, our minds blissfully empty of hardship and the shadow of war. Even now, I can barely recall the summer days spent lazing by the river, looking for fish in the afternoon sun, even though I tried so hard to hold onto those memories forever.

This is my final entry in this journal. My mother gave it to me as I left home for the first time, setting off to make her proud as a fighter for Britain's freedom. She made me promise to write everything that happened to me until I came home again, and I did just that. I'm going to post it to her tomorrow, so she can read exactly what happened these last four years.

Sherlock says to stop wasting ink being sentimental. He also says emotion wastes space he could use for more interesting things, like murder and reading the newspaper. I disagree. Emotion is what makes us all human - it's what kept us sane back in France. Without emotion, every soldier would still be lost somewhere in the battlefields. We would have become cold-hearted killers, or simply had nothing to fight for. Emotion is what made us fight. Emotion is what kept us alive.

I've been here for a day now, having only arrived yesterday evening. The armistice was signed at 11am two days ago, and the bells rang out for the first time. My horse was sold, my uniform left at the bottom of my trunk, and my rifle abandoned in my trench. I hope to never see it again. It's a part of the person I was, not who I am now. I start my new life today, setting out into the capital of our country with my best friend, Sherlock Holmes. He has changed me, much for the better.

I suppose I should stop writing now, having run out of things to say, and close my journal for the last time. Every one of my thoughts for the entire duration of the war has been recorded here, and I won't be sorry to see it go. This is goodbye to who I was, and the beginning of an entire new chapter in the story that is my life. Nothing is left to write for the moment, and so I shall stop here. One last read through my journal will be enough to leave it behind forever.


	2. Chapter 2

**5th August 1914**

**Cornwall, England**

I signed up for the army today.

Mother hasn't said a word about it since I told her this morning, as soon as the sergeant who was taking names had left. The look on her face made me immediately regret it, but I can't back out now. Sherlock Holmes and I enlisted together. He's the only other boy from the village who enlisted that I know more than just a name - life on our farm is mostly secluded, even isolated, from the hustle and bustle of the village. I like it that way.

I still don't know that much about him, though. All I'm aware is that he lives with Mrs Hudson, the bakery owner, and his older brother works for the Government in London. I met him last year.

He was walking through the fields, right at the edge of our sheep pen, smoking a pipe. I was leaning against the fence, keeping an eye on the sheep for a moment, intending to go back to the house in a moment. Then, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"Is this your farm?"

I turned around, surprised at his sudden touch, and nodded. My hat fell off, the terribly convenient item it always was. I picked it up, feeling my cheeks burn at the situation.

He simply smirked, and took another long drag from his pipe. "John Watson, isn't it?"

"Yes," I replied, not wanting to nod and risk my hat falling off once again, "and you're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?"

He nodded, black curls bobbing around his face. He seemed to be scrutinizing my every movement, almost as if he could see exactly what I was thinking, and could tell what I'd done for the last two hours just by the clothes I was wearing. Then again, my life isn't that interesting - anyone could guess what my days on the farm involve. Nothing happens to me.

Maybe that will change, however. The war is certainly something happening, and I seem to be becoming a part of it. We gave one of our horses to the army, to train as a war horse, and now I'm headed to train as well. Sherlock may not even be in the same regiment as I. This is the start of my new life.

Perhaps now that I leave behind my sleepy natal village, and head out to more dangerous, violent situations, I'll finally become a different person to who I've always been. I welcome the change. I won't miss my bedroom, with its dusty windows giving a view of the same rainy fields each day, and the endless expanse of trees and grass surrounding our cottage. I will miss Mother, however, and Harry. Harry has as few friends in the village as I do, and I worry about her constantly. I hope nothing happens to them whilst I'm gone. I also hope I'll be home soon.


End file.
